


Prideful

by recrudescence



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson gets a little poetic justice and House gets a boa (or, the one where they go to Pride).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prideful

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in S3, at some point after House Training. There actually is a lacrosse team called [New Jersey Pride](http://www.newjerseypride.com/), which was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

"_This_ is not a lacrosse game," House growled.

Wilson shrugged, completely unapologetically. "My bad."

House crossed his arms and sank further into the passenger's seat with adolescent aplomb. "That's just low, even for you."

"I never actually _said_ we were going to a game, you know."

"Right, and no _way_ was that my first thought when you sashayed into my office so nonchalantly." House spread his hands in a parody of enthusiasm. "'Oh, hey, House, hope you're free for Jersey Pride on Sunday!' After you _conspicuously asked_ how long it had been since I'd seen a lacrosse game."

Wilson had actually been rather proud of himself for pulling that off. House's annoyance at being taken in just knocked the success level even higher. "Right, it was a _completely_ transparent ploy. Your death-defying perceptiveness must be waning. Someone has to make sure you don't get senile." He opened the door and raised an eyebrow when House's only response was to sulkily purse his lips and start unfolding each of the maps in the glove compartment and refolding them as egregiously as possible. Foreseeing as much, Wilson tended to store any maps of actual importance in the pocket behind the driver's seat, safely out of the way on those occasions when House was both riding shotgun and sulking. "And I don't _sashay_."

"If there was ever a time to start, this is it," House groused, dramatically heaving himself out of the car, apparently satisfied that Wilson's meticulously neat maps were now scattered over the console. "If I'd known this was what your impressive collection of exes and hair products was leading up to…" he trailed off, eyeing a cluster of young men in fairy wings as they navigated their way out of the parking garage.

"You're just pouting on principle because you didn't figure this out before. It's totally your thing and you know it. Lesbians, motorcycles, seeing how many arteries you can block in a single meal…"

"And yet, this _still_ isn't a lacrosse game," House repeated stubbornly, glowering at the bright rainbow banner gracing the park entrance.

"Which is only a bunch of guys in shorts waving sticks and balls around. You'll never notice the difference." Without breaking stride, Wilson jerked his head towards the crowd of tents and venders. "Come on. I'll get you a boa."

Never one to snub Wilson's wallet, House picked the most ostentatious one, an eye-watering creation that looked as if Big Bird's entire extended family had been sacrificed for its construction. And naturally, as soon as the purchase was made, he immediately claimed it was too hot to wear, therefore the only _possible_ solution was for Wilson to wear it for safekeeping. Wilson judiciously decided not to ask what, exactly, House planned on keeping it safe for. "If you just _carry_ it, you'll wad up the feathers," House explained solicitously, fluffing the thing around his shoulders and not dissuaded in the least.

If this was all he had to endure before House grudgingly accepted the fact he'd been had, Wilson could withstand it without a hitch. Granted, it took a smack on the arm and a trio of passing drag queens before House apparently ceded to their superior grandiosity and stopped deliberately reaching out to dishevel the thing until Wilson was somewhere between glaring and sneezing. There was probably some clever catchphrase in there about House ruffling his feathers.

It took less than ten minutes of being ignored before House wasn't bitching about the location anymore. Adolescent appreciation of lesbians and lollipops really did go a long way, and he spent an inordinate amount of time gaping at a 1969 Jaguar XKE that gleamed like a sleek black torpedo. Wilson thought it looked a lot like a Matchbox car he'd had as a kid and way too cramped to be comfortable in, but he couldn't deny it was worth staring at. A few feet away, two elderly men leaning on canes decorated with rainbow-striped covers were doing the same, and _God_, that alone was more than worth it. Wilson's lips twitched.

"Shut. Up," House warned ominously.

Wilson shrugged as innocently as possible. "I didn't even open my mouth. And come on, just imagine everyone's faces if you—"

"Go around looking like the overgrown Munchkin who got bitch-slapped out of the Lollipop Guild?" House's scowl was warped and contorted in the shining sweep of the hood. "Yes, that's a _brilliant_ idea."

"Think of your patients and how reassuring they'll find it. Or think of Cuddy and how not reassuring _she_'ll find it."

House actually looked contemplative for a second. Nearby, a dark-haired girl scored a bulls-eye on a dartboard of Ann Coulter's head and came perilously close to popping out of her tube top partway through her victory dance. Evidently, that was even more worthy of scrutiny than the car.

There weren't actually any motorcycles, which House more than once seemed compelled to point out. And, at one point, upend a vial of glitter over Wilson's head for seemingly the sole purpose of insisting he _screeched_, when actually he just protested very vocally that glitter didn't ever get completely out of _anything_ and he'd be wearing a wig before his hairbrush stopped sparkling.

Wilson collected leaflets and brochures in a complimentary HGTV tote bag, with House occasionally pitching in freebies. He only protested once that neither of them really needed five miniature Magic 8-Balls with the GLAAD logo stamped on them, but House maintained they'd be great entertainment for undiagnosed patients and for strategically losing near the top of the stairs.

They passed a group of girls wearing nothing but duct tape and plastic wrap, a vender selling utility kilts, and a crowd of muscular men wearing cowboy hats and little else who were advertising their calendar of tasteful nudes. One of them neatly parried House's, "I didn't know there was an uncut version of Brokeback Mountain," with a glib, "It's better uncut." Which, unfairly, made Wilson nearly choke, because _someone_ had to get flustered over a remark like that.

House, naturally, wasn't fazed at all by casual vulgarity. "Still in the original packaging here. Tell it to the Jewish boy." And he _winked_. Wilson's eyes gamely had a go at overtaking the rest of his face, but the cowboy didn't seem to mind.

"He's vicious." Uttered _that_ way, it sounded like a good thing. "Look out for him."

"Um. Right." Wilson did his best to look casual from within the depths of the boa. "Duly noted."

House took the end of the thing and led him off towards the food.

"Are you having a good time?" he asked later, watching with guarded fascination as House devoured a skewered corn dog as obscenely as possible.

"Horrible," House said definitively, elbowing a glittery teenager out of the way and dropping onto a bench.

"No worse than taking your boss to a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition, is it?" It really wasn't any worse and he refused to feel bad about it.

House only looked guilty for a fraction of a second, and he covered it by finishing his corn dog to the unabashed appreciation of a few onlookers, but Wilson caught the quick flash of realization in his eyes and managed to keep down a laugh. "Not my fault you suck at dates."

"At least I don't suck fried food," he retorted, resignedly letting House steal his own corn dog and tear into it.

House held out the skewer, all wide-eyed incorruptibility. "Hey, if I'd known you wanted to wrap your lips around my—"

"You know what?" Wilson grimaced and held up his hands, palms out. "I'll get another one."

"Letting me enjoy a meal is the least you can do after manipulating me into coming here and then forcing me to walk this much."

"I'm wearing a flock of peacocks and watching you fellate my food. Yes, you _definitely_ got the short end of the stick."

House tilted his head contemplatively. "You know, that phrase originated from Roman bathhouses…"

"Getting a new one now, I mean it…" He started walking towards the vender like he was out to do battle.

"Is that how it's always gonna be?" House yelled after him. "Leave for a new one and never look back?"

Wilson made with his over to the venders, thinking of saying, "Degenerative neurological condition. I've been trying to get him out and about before it's too advanced for that to happen." It wouldn't be the first time he'd considered passing House off on some uncontrollable excuse.

"So tell me something," House said conversationally once he returned. You've been frolicking around, drinking in the gayness for all you're worth. As in, picking up _pamphlets_, which means you're either thinking of planting them in someone's locker or you're not just here as a casual observer. Did you really bring me out here just to annoy me? If so, that's kind of pitiful."

Not about to deny frolicking and end up in the quagmire of another Sisyphean argument, Wilson just gazed significantly at the sky. "You drew conclusions about the connection between wives and hair products earlier, and Bonnie's already told you how horrible I am in bed. It's more fun when you don't have all the answers spelled out for you, isn't it?" Grinning.

"You've exhausted the female population, so now you're branching out."

"I'm not the one who got hit on by a cowboy."

"You know, I don't think I knew we had cowboys, let alone _naughty_ ones…"

He rolled his eyes. "Quit _guessing_, House."

"I can't quit you." Wilson had never seen anyone _simper_ and pop a Vicodin at the same time before.

"Fine," House said when Wilson didn't talk. "Did you bring me here just to see if you could pull it off or was there another ulterior motive?" bluntly, eyes bright

"Stop trying throwing me at Cuddy," he blurted out. "I'm not going to sleep with her. She's all yours."

"So that's actually it. You've run out of tits, so you're checking out…You're _gay_. Knew it."

"Not remotely," Wilson said calmly, flicking a bright purple feather away from his nose.

"You've been reading _brochures_. No _way_ you thought I wouldn't notice that. Soooo," House drew out the word for a few seconds, face screwed up in exaggerated concentration, "that mean you're beating me over the head with gayness and _really_ you aren't gay at all; you're just trying to screw with me. Figuratively speaking. Ooooor," his eyebrows edged a little closer to his hairline. "_is_ there something else you wanted to screw with? 'Cause either you wanted me to notice and get ideas, when really there's nothing to worry about, or there _is_ and you're trying to set up such an obvious situation it can't possibly _look_ like what it is."

Wilson sniffed. "Coming out at Pride? That isn't cliché at _all_."

"You'd _think_ I would think that, which is exactly why you would _do_ it."

Wilson shrugged sedately and bit into his food. Studied the crumpled foil in his hand.

"Beause if this is just your preemptive midlife crisis coming to a head, you can say so. If you're gonna do it, do it with panache. It's not the end of the world. I sucked a guy's dick in Hungary once." Wilson blinked and House narrowed his eyes, surveying some fascinating spot on the horizon before ducking his head and amending. "More than once. Not just in Hungary." He looked carefully at Wilson, eyes strangely calm. "Both sides of the fence?"

He pressed his lips together, tried not to look down, tried not to relive therapy sessions. Not sure what to make of House's awkward attempt to put him at ease. "Both sides of the fence."

"Anyway," House continued, not missing a beat, "the worst I can do is switch your Vertigo poster with a Queer as Folk one or put rainbow laces in your precious imported shoes. You're really doing yourself a favor—making fun of all your homotastic mannerisms isn't gonna be half as fun now."

"Homo…tastic?"

"And come on, if you're optimistic, this could be good for you. Your taste in men can't be worse than your taste in women."

"I don't think the guy I'm interested in would appreciate that." House's face contorted all over again. "Marco. The pharmacist?"

"You're kidding." House sounded faintly horrified.

"Yeah," Wilson agreed virtuously "He's married. That would be wrong."

"That would be so much more than wrong," House muttered, clearly contemplating the combined powers of his enabler and his pharmacist in that light. "So, to steer you off that path, wanna do it?"

"Um."

"_Ha._ You had to think about that, which means you _do_. Cool."

Giddy, lightheaded, talking about whatever came into his mind. "I don't have any real competition, so that's something. That tends to be the case when a guy happens to be the king of mixed signals, hate humanity, give the implication he'd rather help you OD than actually talk about anything substantial, and is probably a horrible kisser anyway, even though he already walks funny, so at least..."

"Oh, reverse psychology; very creative. So now the unfortunate object of your affection has no choice but to prove you wrong."

"Yeah, but I don't think Marco's into Hockney."

"Whatever. Time to do something more manly now. I'll come up with something; I've got connections, can brainstorm how to win over a pharmacist." He leaned in fractionally. "We could see a play."


End file.
